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Parable in Petunias

January 20, 2025

Amy Lee

Cultivating the Kingdom in Our Midst is a column that invites readers to look for “eye-level” signposts of God at work: shots of beauty that accost us during ordinary hours, scenes of “low art” that unexpectedly make us cry, details right in front of our faces that awaken us to the mercy that bears us up day after day. We’ll explore the underlying truths that are often first signaled by our tender silence or our wondering tears, the better to see the evidence of Christ’s present and approaching reign all around us.

In the summer of 2020, I drove up the road to a clearance sale held by a local greenhouse. The selection was small: petunias, geraniums, and a few perennials — all looking a bit wilted and weary in the heat, and none more so than the bedraggled plants in the “Damaged – 40% off” section. 

I wandered without a clear idea of what I wanted to purchase. I had come for a spot of color for the front porch, but the red geraniums seemed too orange, and the crimson snapdragons were somehow showy and frail at the same time, like a brash shade of lipstick on a face that could not make peace with the passage of time. A plant caught my eye in the shadowy barn: a mass of dead stems tangled with some lingering green, two periwinkle blossoms turned wistfully toward the bright doorway. 

I didn’t want it. Something healthier would endure longer, and since all the inventory was half off, the “damaged” price was no great argument in its favor. 

But after two circuits through the entire display, I picked up the basket. Somehow it seemed right and fitting that day, that year, to bring home a plant and sit on the porch bench with gloves and shears — to prune the decay from each branch, pluck off the sticky spent blooms one at a time, and see what might be done to make room for fresh air and life. 

So I did. Detritus lay scattered around my shoes by the time I was done. A few verdant stems were now liberated from the crisped ones, and I gave them a long drink of water before nudging the pot out into a sunny spot. 

In the weeks that followed, the petunias regained their zest for life. I found that the flowers that were on it at time of purchase were in its “fading out” stage of color; the new blooms opened into brilliant purple faces. As the pot actually held three or four separate plants, I removed half to place in the ground along the garden path — the spade sliced through the root-bound soil like sponge cake — and readied the other half for a new home on the front porch. 

One afternoon when those tiny velvet trumpets were in full splendor, I sat at my desk picking through withered ideas and old snippets of sentences. As I tossed phrases into my Scraps document, I caught in my movements the echoes of the petunia’s rehabilitation and grinned. 

It is good labor—and it is unending. It was a truth that had come home to me that year: a garden would always require attention, even after it was established. The daily work I am called to as a member of Christ’s Body is steady, often slow, and small; if I go about life rightly, this is the description of the work I will be doing right up until I step over the threshold of eternity. 

Writing is no different. That very day I was winnowing out truth from anxious thoughts, seeking to re-stake my hope with awe as I looked for the majesty of God. And I found it in that moment as I saw the link between outdoor and indoor work, between undergardener and—

My hands opened to the One doing the greater work in me, caught between a laugh and a tear in sudden gratitude for the kindness of His vision and His patience. 

A good and unending work, indeed.



The featured image, “Ninebark Leaf in Winter,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.



 

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